


Those Who Wronged

by rae1112



Series: Disunification [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae1112/pseuds/rae1112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the present day, Germany ponders how his relationships with the world have changed since WWII. Unsurprisingly, England, America, and Russia feature prominently. </p><p> </p><p>Same universe as <i>When the Cat's Away</i>, though it makes sense without reading it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for discussion of some mildly unsettling WWII events.

The truth was, Germany did not know who he resented the most.

He sat in the large hall, waiting for the conference to begin. Almost everyone had arrived, though not many had sat down. Most of the nations navigated around the seats carefully, mingling amongst themselves with pleasant tones that were calculated to a fault. Germany had no interest in socializing with his peers today. Instead, he sat at his seat, notes for the day already opened on his Dell. He had heeded the alphabetized seating chart, meaning that he would be between Georgia and Ghana, both whom he had no immediate business with, which was a relief, considering he was not feeling _particularly_ talkative.

No, instead he felt _particularly_ contemplative. Italy would have called it broody, perhaps, if Italy was still speaking with Germany, as a lover, or even as a friend. Since he no longer was, Italy paid Germany no mind, at least not outwardly, so Germany would never know if he looked as unapproachable as he felt.  
.  
So, he was in a contemplative mood with nobody to dissuade him from it. And it was because of this that Germany found himself looking at the table at the front of the room, the high table, the most important table for these United Nations meetings amongst the actual nations: the Security Council Table.

The five seats were already occupied: France, Russia, England, America, and China were always inexplicably early for these meetings, always whispering amongst themselves and passing along encoded USB’s to one another, never sharing the entirety of any of their agenda’s with the rest of the room. 

And now, with nothing else to focus on, not Italy, not Prussia, not chaos from the European Union, Germany’s thoughts turned to the resentment he felt for the five individuals at the front of the hall.  


\-------------

_1945_

\-------------

“Have you ever wondered which one of them you hate the most?”

Germany was visiting Italy in his broken, damaged home. The windows were no longer paned with glass, and the floorboards were completely out of place. Every item laid strewn or overturned, turning Italy’s once stylish veranda into frighteningly vandalized property. While Germany had made the repairs to his own house as immediately as possible, Italy preferred to leave the mess intact, and stare at the destruction with a lost countenance. It made Germany uncomfortable, to see Italy’s misery so frankly displayed.

“Hm?” Italy hummed, taking another sip from his cracked mug. The thing would fall apart soon, far too wearied now, much like Italy himself. But still, Italy persisted in drinking from it, and he would continue to do so, until it shattered completely in his hands. “Who are you talking about, Germany?”

Germany pursed his lips. “Damn it, Italy. You know very well.”

Italy did not change his expression, looking lost still as he sipped again from his broken mug. “I don’t really want to talk about it, Germany.” His voice was hoarse, though still melodic as it always was. Germany wanted to break his neck.

“I want to talk about it.” Germany glared harshly at his ally, his supposed ally, the one whose brother was so quick to betray them.

Italy stayed silent, and Germany did not press him. But silence had always felt oppressive to Italy in a way it never had for Germany, and so he finally answered after a time

“…I’m not sure.”

“You must have some idea.”

Italy paused, contemplating. It was a strange look on him.

“I think I might hate England the most.”

Germany frowned at that. “Why? Did he hurt you the most?”

Italy sipped again. “They have all hurt me. They’ve hurt me to such a degree, that I don’t particularly care which one hurt me the most.” His coffee was near finished, thank God, for the mug did not look to be able to hold up much longer. “England has a way with words.”

“As we all do.” 

A pause, again.

“I misspoke, I think.” Italy said, probably to be contrary. He finally looked into Germany’s eyes, something he hadn’t been able to do since their horrible demise and surrender. Victory in Europe Day, indeed. “He is gifted with history.” When Germany furrowed his brow in confusion, Italy expanded. “He has been a victor for so long. He will be the one to write our history. Do you think he will dwell on the civilians he killed, in Berlin? The attacks he instigated, to break our morale?” Italy broke off eye contact, and Germany swallowed in relief. “Or do you think he will focus on his own people’s bravery, their steadfast morale in the face of the evil German air-strikes, which would break all of London’s structures but none of London’s people. What of Berlin’s people.” Here, Italy swallowed, thickly. “What of Rome’s people.”

Germany’s gaze lowered, and he focused on Italy’s mug again. It was a shame it was so damaged. He recognized the mark now as German. “History is written by the victors, Italy. You know this.”

“No one will recognize him as a _monster_.” Italy continued, this time punctuating his words with a sob, surprising Germany, though he should have anticipated the tears. “Nobody cares that it was his fault, him and France _the codardo_ , who forced us to fight—would we have fought otherwise? When they drove us to poverty, Germany, not us but our citizens, who would stop him? He will not be punished for the role he played in all of this.” Italy was openly crying now, hatred poisoning his tongue. “Not for his hypocrisy, not for his lies—n-no, his lies will become fact. And _you_ will be the monster, Germany, and I will be a coward. I will be a coward, along with France, because France did not manage to protect England. Did he?! But America, America _saved_ England, so he will be a true hero, will he not? And England, he will be at the center of it all, just like he has been for hundreds of years, and I am tired of him Germany, I am tired of his _language_ and his _stories_ , and his _brutish history_ and his _determination to systematically destroy everything the natural world had to offer us, and I hate him, he is a heretic, a heretic, a blasphemous HERETIC—“_

\-------------

_Present Day_

\-------------

England did not sit at the center of the table very often lately, though he usually flanked America’s side. Today was no exception, and Germany watched as England griped with America on one side and turned occasionally to smack France on the other. He did not look unusual, his hair perhaps a smidge tidier than customary, and his face more expressive now than it had been for the last few decades. Certainly less expressive now than then, however, when Germany had littered his streets with bombs and explosions and England had looked on, the promise of revenge painted clearly on his face. But England’s methods of revenge were not talked of much, for Italy was right, and England had managed to turn the Great Wars into his redemption for enslaving entire continents and bleeding them dry.

Still, Germany could not hate England as easily as Italy could. Once upon a time, England and Germany had been more to each other than enemies, and Germany remembered England’s bright smile when Germany would tell him the traditions of the Germanic Christmas, England’s unrestrained curiosity when Germany showed him industrialized Berlin for the first time, and England’s practiced ease whenever he would whisper words of admiration, not in English, but in German, to the citizens of Berlin, and later at night, to Germany himself.

But Italy did not see any of these things when he looked at England. Instead, he saw an anarchist with Satan in his eyes, who would choose King over God in a brazen and insulting fashion.

Who would not hesitate to burn Sicily down with America at his side.

Germany resented England, but he could not hate him. Even now, when England sat at the Security Council table, depriving Germany (Germany, who was far more economically relevant than England, who was far more financially secure than England, who could be the savior of all of Europe in a way that England never could) of his rightful position in the U.N., Germany could not hate the island nation. And when England turned and caught Germany’s eye, Germany found himself smiling in acknowledgement. England looked bewildered, but he soon returned the smile with a slight upturn of his lips, before turning to argue with America once again.

England had recorded history. But he had not rewritten it.

America leaned toward England, beginning to whisper something in his ear.

\-------------

_Sometime after 1945_

\-------------

Quite some time had passed before Germany had been allowed to see Japan again. At first, he had kept away because he was forbidden to visit a country that lay in nuclear decay. And then it had been because Japan vehemently refused to see him. Germany didn’t know exactly why his former ally locked himself away, but he had a hunch. Surrender did not look good on any state, and Japan was particularly prone to shame.

Though Germany was good with dates and numbers, he could not even remember the year Japan allowed visitors in his home again. Germany was one of the first to come, with Italy, though at that time the two were fighting more and more. They took off their shoes, as usual, like nothing had happened, and they went inside of Japan’s home, and they spoke to him as if half his skin hadn’t been burned off his face. They spoke of infrastructure, and rebuilding, and of new leadership in their respective countries, discussed the burden of living in a place with transitional democracy. They laughed about it, even. They didn’t mention the poverty. They didn’t discuss Prussia’s fate.

They didn’t talk about America. At least, not while Italy was there.

 

\-------------

“I heard he used your technology.” 

Japan’s tone was always even, and his voice never wavered. Even when discussing his own demise and destruction.

Italy had left hours ago. He could only pretend that Japan’s face didn’t make him want to vomit for so long. Germany didn’t begrudge him. Not everyone had a German stomach.

“My technology? If I had that technology, London and Moscow would be far more damaged than they are.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his makeshift cigarettes. After offering one to Japan (who declined graciously, and did not mention the adverse effects smoking had on his condition), Germany lit it up with a match. He blew out smoke. “Perhaps you meant my scientists.”

“I’m not aware of the specifics, my apologies.” Japan said monotonously, taking a sip of tea from his new saucer. Everything was new in Japan’s home, now that Germany paid some more attention. Rather like Germany himself, Japan had been quick to fix the damage done to his own home at least. If Germany hadn’t known that there used to be another wing to Japan’s spacious home, it would have looked like there had never been any damage at all.

“I think he used some German discoveries. Concepts, really.” He took another drag. “I had nothing to do with this, Japan.”

Japan nodded, avoiding eye contact. “I did not mean to imply anything, Germany-san. I just meant…I do not know what I meant. I’ve just been wondering about it.”

“Reasonable, considering everything.” Germany shifted around, getting uncomfortable sitting on Japan’s hard floors. But he would say nothing. Japan had his legs crossed, though one was broken. “Are you still as angry?” Stupid question, and Germany immediately wanted to take it back.

“I am.” _Stupid question, indeed_. The two stayed in silence for a while. But then, Japan looked up into Germany’s eyes and said, “Did you know he visited me, a week before this?” Germany shook his head no. Japan then continued. “Yes…he did. He was not authorized, of course, but my authority no longer matters to him. He came…with England, I think, but the whole memory is very lucid. It must have been England, when they drank tea, he asked for milk.” Japan swallowed his own tea, as if in defiance. Milk free, of course. “England was saying…things, things about my country, as if I couldn’t feel it, and…and I think he started crying, he left, but America…” Japan’s voice wavered. “America stayed behind. He didn’t say anything. He just stood by my side. He…” And here, Germany thought Japan wouldn’t be able to continue. They sat in silence again. Germany smoked his cigarette, and watched the smoke mix with the steam from Japan’s tea. The smell was probably unpleasant for Japan, but it was Germany had to calm his nerves these days. Poverty did not bode well for a nation’s nerves, as every nation besides America probably knew at the moment.

Japan wasn’t done yet however, and he finally continued by saying “He said he wasn’t sorry.”

The story finished with England coming back and saying goodbye to Japan one last time, before departing for London again, America by his side. It wasn’t a particularly interesting, or even cruel, story. But it stuck with Germany anyway. He put out his cigarette. 

\-------------

_Present Day_  


\-------------

America still shined like a beacon of hope, despite the fact that he and his people had marred “the American Dream” long ago. He generally ignored the bickering surrounding him, and would only occasionally interrupt with something completely irrelevant, only to start a brand new argument. Germany didn’t need to hear any part of the conversation to know this—America’s smug grin explained all.

Which wasn’t anything new. America’s smile was always smug, and he was always smiling. Germany wanted to laugh until he threw up every time any of the other nations labeled America as “naïve” or a “hero”. America had stopped being naïve the minute he began committing genocide, and he would do nothing if it didn’t benefit him in some way. He had learned that much from England, at least.

“Stop glaring at him,” Germany’s brother, Prussia, seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Germany jumped. “S’not good for business. I heard he has quite a sway in Wall Street, the little cunt.” And with that, Prussia flung himself into the chair next to Germany’s. Ghana’s chair. Well.

“You can’t sit there.” Germany immediately said.

“He already suspects you don’t like him.” Prussia paid Germany’s comment no mind. Which wasn’t a surprise. “He was whining about it to England the other night. Really loudly. In the middle of the bar. It would be pathetic if he wasn’t a superpower.” Prussia leaned forward to pick up Ghana’s agenda, and began flipping through it. “He just kept saying how much of a bitch you were, but he didn’t care, since Europe is a dying beast anyway, blah blah blah…heh, I think it’s the most amusing shit, when he insults Europe and forgets that England is a part of it—”

“You can’t take Ghana’s agenda!” Germany lunged at his brother, but Prussia kept him at bay with a leg. “Prussia-goddamn it, I don’t care what lies America was spreading, but I do care about the fact that you are not supposed to be here!” he tried to avoid Prussia’s foot, to no avail. “Get out!”

But Prussia always found Germany’s protests amusing at best, and though he surrendered the agenda, he made no moves to leave. “Besides,” he began, “stay angry at America all you want, but you know this isn’t his fault.”

“I don’t know what _this_ is supposed to mean, Prussia.” Germany replied, still glaring angrily at his brother, willing him to leave quickly. 

But Prussia had frozen, staring at something past Germany’s shoulder. Germany frowned at his brother’s lack of response, and turned to see what caused the sudden whiplash in attitude.

He quickly understood. Russia had stood to call the conference to order.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I forgot to post this. It has been a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some disturbing WWII/Cold War themes.

_1951_

\-------------

“Answer me this, comrade.” Russia demanded more than asked. It seemed to be his style of communication these days. “Were you always planning on throwing away our friendship when it was most convenient? Or did the chance come up, and you chose to take it?”

Germany shifted, uncomfortably. Russia’s office was cold, and though there were no physical restrictions, Germany could not shake the feeling that things would turn very unpleasant for him indeed if he did not respond correctly.

Not that things had not been particularly unpleasant already. Over the past few months he’d watched meeting after meeting, led by America, England, and the “Soviet Union”, where the topic of discussion had been how exactly to divide and cut up his lands in the most gruesome way possible. For every arbitrary line England drew, Germany felt a corresponding cut in his own skin, raw and bloody and painful.

He couldn’t imagine how Prussia was feeling. 

“I’m not entirely sure how to address you, Ivan.” Germany answered, feeling particularly bold.

Russia laughed, sharply and coldly. “Well, that is absolutely the wrong way!” He turned to fiddle with a drawer on his desk. “But of course, you already knew that. Rather rude of you, Germany, you are a guest in my home after all. Vodka?” He pulled out a bottle without a label from the bottom drawer. “I’m afraid it is not very good quality. We have been having a bit of a supply problem as of late.”

“I would love some, thank you.” Germany said, knowing better than to refuse. “And, respectfully, I really am trying--you’ve gone through a few name changes as of late, I don’t quite know what to make of it.”

Russia smiled, this time a little softer, though Germany was sure the taller man did not intend to do so. “Yes...I suppose I cannot fault you for that.” He handed Germany his glass, and the younger man nodded in thanks. “My name is the Soviet Union, and has been for quite some time, comrade. I find it quite a mouthful, however. I prefer you call me Russia, still. After all, we did not stop calling Prussia by his name though his country ceased to exist, hm?”

Germany clenched the glass in his hand, attempting to keep a level head. “...No, we did not.”

Russia nodded, staring at Germany a little absentmindedly. He looked exceptionally tired, far worse for wear than the other Allies, and even some of the Axis powers. Germany was well aware of the extent Russia was willing to stretch in order to win a war. But it had taken a toll. He was as gaunt as he was tall, battered and bruised even now, a few years after the end of the war. For all his demands and mean spirited declarations, Russia looked ready to collapse any second. And Germany sorely wished he would. 

“Will you answer my question.” Russia finally asked, voice raspy. Germany noticed he had not touched his vodka despite pouring a generous amount of it into his glass. As if to compensate, Germany took two giant gulps of his own glass (huge mistake, as it turned out--Russia had not been lying about the quality of his alcohol).

“...I think you already know the answer.” Germany replied, referring to the friendship Russia first questioned. “We were always looking to expand. Your lands were vast enough to expand into. We figured with England out of the way, we could focus all of our energies on you, and come out on top.” Russia’s face was twisting in an ugly way, which probably did not bode well for Germany’s well-being. He was beyond caring at this point, however. 

Russia finally drank his vodka, gulping the whole glass down in one go. “Why are you here, Germany?” he spat, all pretenses of politeness driven from his face. “I’m sure your American keeper won’t be pleased to know you’re out of your cage.”

“I want to speak to Prussia.” Russia rolled his eyes.

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes. I know you’re keeping him somewhere. Probably around here...you can’t keep him locked up like an animal, you must let me see him!”

“You think I’m keeping him _locked up_ somewhere?” Russia questioned, incredulously. 

Germany leaned forward. “Don’t bother denying it. America told me, you’re torturing him--”

“Oh, _America_ told you!” Russia repeated, mockingly. “Da, greatest track record for truth telling that boy has, hm? Tell me, Germany, where exactly am I keeping him? In Moscow, in front of the Politburo, in front of Stalin? In my personal torture chamber, so as to complete my transformation into a two-dimensional villain?”

“I-It isn’t so absurd, I know you, you keep, you hurt--”

“ _You don’t know what you are talking about!!_ ” Russia finally yelled, slamming his hands down on his desk with a deafening bang. “There is no one here with me! _No one!_ As usual, I am alone, in Moscow, in deep winter, trying to keep all of my citizens from starving to death! If your brother is not speaking to you, perhaps it is because he does not want to!”

Germany began to shake his head. “No...no, he’s here somewhere, he would have contacted me, if he was in Germany…”

“Grow up.” Russia interrupted, reaching for his bottle again. “I am in charge of your brother now. He _is_ in Germany, he is of no use to me here. Any distance between you two is no fault of mine. Perhaps he is simply tired of corresponding with a losing brother.”

Germany, who had not personally fought anyone in three years, lunged for Russia’s neck. 

\--------------

_Present_

\-------------

 

It was rare to have Russia lead a meeting nowadays, mostly because the colossal country preferred not to. Usually he enjoyed sitting in the sidelines, sniping at whoever was presenting at any giving moment, and making secretive plans with China, plans the rest of the world was not privy to. 

It was easy to see why Prussia glared and sneered at Russia so openly to this day. As it had turned out, Russian agencies had tortured “East Germany” for information, and had prevented his attempts at contacting Germany throughout the sixties and seventies. Still, Germany found it hard to fault Ivan to this day. It was not only his intelligence agencies who used nefarious methods to gather information. Being creepy and unhinged looking seemed to be Russia’s form of self defense, after all, and Germany could not fault him for that. Besides, though the divide had been painful, he and Prussia had survived it. 

So, Germany put his hand on Prussia’s shoulder, communicating silently in an attempt to calm his brother down. It seemed to work, because Prussia almost immediately began breathing slower and deeper. Germany almost sighed in relief. They could get through this, just like they always had. 

And get through it they did. He watched as every member of the Security Council vetoed every proposal that was brought to order, and watched the rest of the convened countries get angrier and angrier. He himself was used to it. The whole organization seemed to be a sham, really, a pointless venture, to have all the anamorphic countries of the world gather to attempt to set some sort of agenda. As long as America, England, and Russia were around, compromise would never reign supreme. And that was just fucking fine by him.

\-------------

_After the meeting_

\-------------

“Allemagne, wait, stop walking so fast!” Germany looked back to see France running down the corridor, waving something around, “Is this your agenda?”

He frowned as France flounced up to him. “Hm...yes, I believe it is...thank you, Frankreich.”

France smiled, the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the one that implied that he would never forgive, or forget, even if his people eventually did. “You are welcome, mon cher. See you next month?”

And Germany hated, _hated_ , this most of all--his inability to look France in the eye without wanting to vomit from the guilt. “...Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Two shot because this was getting too long for me. 
> 
>  


End file.
